Failure
by Darkness' Embrace
Summary: Tom Riddle was the perfect person; indestructible and immoral. Although hated by many, he was admired by all. He had only one weakness, one thing that led to his ultimate demise. His only weakness was himself.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series. All rights belong to J.K Rowling.**

**Warnings: This story contains veiled references to self-mutilation, torture, murder, and mental instability. **

**Failure**

It was a shame, really, how things came to be. It was a mistake, nothing but one blip in an otherwise perfectly spotless record. But it was enough to ruin everything; it was enough to make him throw it all away. By the end, the pain was his only friend. He loved it, cherished it even. Each sharp twinge of bloody ecstasy was like a balm to his nerves, a way to allow the poison that filled him to leach from the black void that was once a heart. He killed that too, that most vital organ, along with everything else that lived and breathed within him.

He had always been better than everyone else. He was superior in all things that mattered. He was a greater being, someone not to be trifled with by mere mortals. Therefore, he had no one to impress, no one to please, no one but himself. The only person that he relied on was he.

What does one do when they are their own biggest enemy? He was his only friend, and his own worst nightmare. Sometimes, he imagined simply throwing himself off the astronomy tower, losing himself to the black void, just so that he would be free of that voice in the back of his head, the one telling him that he wasn't good enough, that he was unwantable.

He seeked the approval of his own mind, and refused to rest until he got it. He hungered for that feeling of relief, for the satisfaction of knowing that he had fulfilled one of the many dark, twisted needs that lay deep within him. But ensconced within each small victory was another minute triviance, a challenge unimportant enough to simply hover at the edges of his consciousness, yet large enough to drive him mad with it's constant presence.

It was a vicious cycle of highs and lows, one he could never truly escape from, even if he tried. Ultimately, this unorthodox way of living led him astray; it forced him to become the person he never really thought he would be. He became obsessed, infatuated with the monogamy of the living substance that flowed through each person's veins. He needed something distinguishable, something tangible that he could use to reassure himself that he really was different, that he was honestly better. Without that, all would be lost.

He drove himself to extremes, because in the end, nothing else mattered. Proving himself to his own psyche was his goal, his reward, while simultaneously being the reason everything went so wrong.

He was strong. Everyone knew that, it was plain to see. Outwardly, everything came together. He was the perfect person, a completely self-sufficient unit. He didn't care what people thought; he didn't even consider the way others perceived him. What did they know? They couldn't see anything; they weren't smart enough to look past the carefully cultivated façade. Only he had the power to see what wasn't there, but in this one case, even he was fooled by the mask. It was the only thing that slipped past him, the only time something hadn't worked out the way he wanted it to, and from there, everything fell apart.

People didn't see the unsure, insecure little boy that lay behind the mask, not even himself. He was a psychopath, someone with no morals, no sense of right or wrong. That was what they all said about him, and he agreed, but only because he wished it was true. He wished he could ignore the little twinge he felt each time he killed, he dreamed of tuning out that small voice at the back of his mind screaming at him that he was wrong, that what he was doing was a mistake. But wasn't it all a mistake?

He hadn't felt anything for so long, he'd simply thrust each wish, each desire away from him, that when he felt something, he held on to it. Each time he tortured someone, as he heard their wild screams, their shameless begging, he felt something flare up inside of him. When he pointed his wand at another victim and uttered that most dreaded curse, as he watched the green light shoot from his wand tip and pierce the writhing body that lay at his feet, as he watched the light leave their eyes, he felt a pang of some long dead emotion.

It was the only at times like these that he could feel anything, anything at all, and he loved it. Most of the time, he was cold, as unfeeling as stone, but during those split seconds where he caused enough pain to break someone, he felt truly alive, honestly in control of this wild life he led.

He didn't see until later that such a feat was impossible. Controlling the beast that was himself was an unachievable dream, one of the whimsical musings of a child. He was the most powerful dark wizard to walk the Earth, and yet he was impervious to his own malice. Nothing could touch him, and he hated it. He loathed the fact that there would be no end for him, that he would simply continue existing; never dying, but never truly living. Even when he was gone, his spirit would endure, floating in that horrific plane of living death.

He tried everything to make himself disappear, but nothing worked. He wanted nothing more than to escape from the disappointment that followed him everywhere, the disapproval from himself that he couldn't keep out of his head. Everyone respected him, even his worst enemies, because no matter how evil he was, he was great. No on could deny that. There was only one person who didn't have an inkling of appreciation for him, only one person who could truly say they thought him stupid, unworthy of anything. That person was himself. This was why he tried so hard to make it go away, to cut it all out.

In the end, he succeeded, but it came at a great price. He fought long and hard with the fierce disapproval that occupied his mind at every moment, he tried so hard to kill it, and after years of struggle, his work finally paid off. The constant condemnation was gone, and it took everything else with it. His humanity, his morality, it all disappeared on that cool evening in October.

Only through sin could he regain some sort of emotion, and even that was as dark and twisted as everything else that defined him. But honestly, though at times he regretted what he had forced himself to become, he couldn't really say that he would take back his actions.

By the end, Tom Riddle was as satisfied as it was possible to be. Because although his humanity was forever lost, and he had become everything he never thought he would be, he was free from the constant disapproval, the sense of disappointment and inadequacy that had followed him for so long. For the first time in his life, Tom was grateful. He was thankful for everything that had allowed him to rid himself of the traitor voice in the back of his mind that broke down his defences, one by one.

When he saw that green jet of light stream towards him, he didn't even think of blocking it or jumping out of the way. He welcomed it, because what would one do without death? They would live, and there was nothing Tom Riddle hated more than living. Life was the root of all his problems, the source of his fierce regret, and he loathed it for making him second guess himself.

So when faced with death, Tom didn't look for a way out. He simply let it grasp him within its icy cold clutches, dragging him down, away from everything, away from the world he had tried so hard to live in.

Although he succeeded in everything else, fulfilling every dream he had, that was the only thing Tom Riddle failed at. Everyone else could do it, but no matter how hard he tried, it was simply impossible. The only thing Tom Riddle failed at was living, and he hated himself for it.

**FIN**

**A/N This is a response to Rameelia's Black, black heart: the remorseful villains' Challenge. The prompts are numbers 2 and 20: Tom Riddle Jr, and disappointment. **


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